If We Leave Right Now
by exquisitedarkness
Summary: After finding out that John Gilbert is both she and Elena's father, Bonnie Bennett is stunned and confused. She decides to use her summer vacation to embark on a road trip across the country to find the mother she has never known. Damon Salvatore, the bane of her existence, decides to tag along.
1. Chapter 1

_**After finding out that John Gilbert is both she and Elena's father, Bonnie is stunned and confused. She decides to use her summer vacation to embark on a road trip across the country to find the mother she has never known. Damon Salvatore, the bane of her existence, decides to tag along.**_

* * *

In the end I light it on fire.

The letter, I mean. I watch my mother's hurried scrawl go up in flames of bright yellow and orange at the bottom of my empty trashcan, inhaling the acrid scent of burnt paper until there is nothing but ash. When the flames go out, I sit wrapped up in the darkness, knees to my chest.

And then I scream.

There's no one to hear. The house is empty. It's just me and has been since the day my Gram's passed away, a little over a month ago. I've always lived in this house, always occupied the bedroom right off the living room with the yellow walls and white furniture. This is the place where I grew up, where I took my first steps and said my first words.

All without a father or a mother to document them.

Instead I had Grams. Grams to read me stories, to tuck me in at night and help me with homework. Grams to teach me how to sew, how to iron properly, and what to do when I got my first period. Grams to cook me dinner and braid my hair when it got too unruly to be tamed. Grams to fill the roles of both parents I'd never get the chance to know.

And now… now I have no one. After reading the letter she had stored away in her safety deposit box, I realize the very bitter truth that has been staring me down all my life. My father has known me this whole time and never, ever gone out of his way to tell me the truth of my paternity. Grams had done all that she could to replace the role of my mother and father, but she had known as well. She had known he'd never claim me, and made sure I'd grown up a very loved, very happy little girl in spite of the circumstances of my conception.

But what she hadn't known was that cancer was creeping about inside of her long-dead womb. She hadn't known that skipping out on doctor's visits would leave her vulnerable to a wicked illness that would strip away the very last bits of her strength and vitality. She hadn't known she'd have to leave me so soon.

And now, struck with the knowledge of all the secrets kept away from me for years, I have absolutely no idea what to do.

Eventually, I grow tired of screaming. I sob instead, wrestling with the agony of the truth, now burnt to a crisp at my feet. It hurts. Reality is a vile beast, and at eighteen, I have only just begun to learn how foul and violent it can be. Watching my Gram's slow death had been terrible and exhausting...but learning my father's identity?

I am horrendously over my head, and can't even begin to comprehend the onslaught of emotions coming my way right now.

I clamber to my feet, hands shaking as I grab hold of the trash can. Stumbling through the dark to the bathroom is difficult, I trip once over the edge of the bed frame before I make it to the bathroom and flick on the light. My reflection in the mirror is hellish - I don't bother washing off the smeared remnants of my mascara. I dump the ashes of my mother's letter into the porcelain bowl and flush without a second thought. It all goes swirling down the drain.

God, how can I ever look any of my friends in the eye again? I can't even begin to fathom their reactions, let alone the reaction of my _best friend._ How do I tell her that her father is also _mine? How do I tell her that the only reason I even exist is because her father raped my mother while her mother was only a month pregnant?_

I can't breathe. I have a _half-sister._

The walls of the lavender painted bathroom seem to breathe on their own as I slide down the wall into a crumpled mess at the foot of the toilet. My stomach heaves and I reach for the bowl, but nothing comes up. Nothing but another cry that wrenches from my throat. Elena and I don't even look alike. Her eyes are a soft, muted brown while mine vary by day between a vibrant jade and a subtle hazel. My skin is caramel brown, and her complexion has always been light olive.

None of my features of John Gilbert's, so I must look like my mother. Not that I'd like to share any physical similarities with my mother's rapist, but even if I were to work up the nerve to tell Elena, it wouldn't help my case any. She'd never believe me, and it doesn't help any that John Gilbert will never open his mouth to speak the truth. I'm not sure I can confront him about the matter - not after looking into his eyes all these years, certain that he was just my friend's moody father.

I am alone in this. _Utterly alone._

The idea comes to me quick as a bolt of lightning as I dangle my fingers precariously over the water's surface. The icy press of the marble rim of the toilet bowl is cold against my cheek.

I should leave town.

Without Grams to anchor me, I have no reason to stay. College at Whitmore this upcoming fall semester can't be put off - not if I want to survive in the world on my own and keep my full four-year scholarship. But I can get away for a few months and live on the road. I can get out of this crippling community full of it's gossipy neighbors and stifling memories. My friends won't understand - but maybe they don't need to. Not yet. I can't look Elena in the eyes anyway, not to mention step one foot inside the Gilbert house like I used too.

I could pack up the civic, use a small portion of my inheritance money and save the rest.

Before my mind can go any further, a pounding noise sounds from the front of the house. It's repetitive and hard, and I hear the muffled exclamation of my name being shouted from outside. God, I'm in no shape to answer the door. Not like this.

It turns out that I don't have to. There's the sound of shattering glass, a _window,_ and then my name can be heard more clearly as it's shouted again from inside the living room. I recognize the deep voice though I haven't heard it in person in months. It's laced with panic, and then I remember the conversation I'd been having before I'd read the letter stashed away inside the safety deposit box.

 _Damon._

He'd called to offer his condolences, having just heard the news about Grams when he'd arrived home last night for summer break. I'd been going through some of Gram's things when his named appeared and my phone began to vibrate on the bedside table. Though he and I hardly speak beyond the bounds of social gatherings - I'd forgotten entirely that I even had his number - I'd inferred his reason for calling and picked up anyways.

I hadn't thought too much into it as I ripped open the sealed envelope with my name on it. Grams had left me everything in her will; I'd figured maybe she'd written me something in her last days detailing how to take care of the house or the bank accounts. But as the words slowly began to digest and I found myself reading the named scribbled hastily in the bottom, left-hand corner of the paper, Damon's voice coming through the speakers had faded into background noise. I realized that everything I'd read hadn't come from Grams at all, but the mother who had skipped out of town before I was even a month old. I can't remember whether or not I had even hung up the phone or just dropped it altogether.

"Bennett!" He calls again. The sound of his boots clomping through the front hall echoes into the bathroom. Not one part of me can find the will to respond; he catches sight of the glow coming from beneath my bedroom door and is standing in the doorway of the bathroom in an instant. He takes in my slumped form over the rim of the toilet bowl and drops to his knees beside me. "What the fuck, Bennett are you okay? Jesus Christ on earth, you were screaming so loud I thought someone was murdering you!"

Yeah, I must've dropped it.

I shrug tiredly, and can't find the words to respond to his question. Am I okay? Sure. Somehow, I'm still living and breathing and existing on this plane like I always have. But fundamentally, something has changed. My skin and bones are half-monster, half-victim and always have been. Everything is all jumbled up in my head; all the lies, the memories and the unbearable truths.

Damon frowns, his angular features coming together in the knit of his dark brow. His usually icy gaze has darkened into a deeper blue, and then it hits me that Damon is actually _worried about me._ Granted, I'd probably given him a minor heart attack on the other end of the line. But the Boarding House is a good twenty minutes away, and he must've driven pretty fast to get here. I can tell that he'd been in the middle of something by the haphazard way his pants are tucked into his boots.

More often than not, Damon and I don't get along. It's a well-known fact amongst our shared group of friends, and has much to do with the different ways we have chosen to live our lives. He's two years older than the rest of us, but as Stefan's older brother, he's become an on and off part of our friend group. Damon, as the pretty son of a successful lawyer with a substantial bank account, has few concerns other than women, bourbon, and the next adrenaline high. When it comes down to it, my moral compass seems to work quite well while his doesn't seem to work at all. The fact that he's here now, looking more concerned than the night his crazy ex girlfriend faked a pregnancy, speaks volumes. Of what though, I can't be sure.

"Your head is in the toilet, Bennett. Imagine the germs," he teases gently, but the panic hasn't faded from his voice. He leans forward to filter a few curls away from my face in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. In another circumstance, I might've batted that hand away the second he reached for me. In this case I'm too worn down to even bat an eyelash. "You should at least sit up a little bit. Are you sick?"

I'm not sick, even though I probably look it. He's right. I should at least peel my cheek off the rim. I suck in a breath, knowing that I must look an awful mess. I feel it.

Maybe it's the insane influx of emotions I've been experiencing over the last half hour, or the genuine concern on Damon's face, but my bottom lip starts to wobble precariously as I push myself up. God, I don't want to cry anymore. Not in front of him, and not at all. These past few months I've shed more tears combined than the last three years of my life. I'd been so happy before Gram's cancer diagnosis six months ago. How had it all spiraled into this?

"Hey hey, Bon. Look at me. _Tell me what's wrong._ " he urges insistently. I sniffle, dragging a hand across my wet face.

Slightly ashamed, I manage to look him in the eye. Since he's been away, his dark hair has grown out a few inches; it curls over the tips of his ears and splays out across his forehead in untamed, feathery strands. Even though summer has just begun, it's clear the sun has already been kind to him. His normally pale skin is a light tan, emphasizing the stark contrast of his startlingly blue eyes even more.

He's honestly an incredibly good-looking guy if you can get past all the cockiness and asshattery. I've known him so long though, that his lesser qualities are typically _all_ I see. They seem to be absent now. I search his well-sculpted features for a trace of his usual mockery and come up short.

It wouldn't be the whole truth to call Damon my friend. We've actually been pretty consistent frenemies for the majority of our lives, though I find myself unable to muster up an ounce of irritation for him. He's really crouching next to me in the bathroom, utter germaphobe that he is, and although I know my demons could keep me in isolation - I could brush him off and pretend like problems are none of his business - I really _don't want to._

I feel less alone with him staring at me like this, even if it's kind of like being a bug under a clear blue microscope. Even if I might want to strangle myself later for letting him in.

"Bonnie," he sighs, running a hand through the disheveled mop of his midnight hair. "I know we sort of hate each other but I'll probably have recurring nightmares about the sound of your screams for the rest of my life. If you need to vent to me right now, _please_ do it. We can call truce for five minutes, right?"

He smiles a tiny, encouraging little smile at the word 'truce' and that's all it takes. I can never tell Elena - at least I don't think I'll ever be able to gather enough courage to tell her the truth about her own father. _Our father._ But keeping it all locked inside?

It's not healthy. I'll go insane walking around Mystic Falls, pretending to be regular Bonnie with such a huge, devastating secret. I can't even talk about it with Grams - it pains me to realize that I hold the teeniest amount of resentment her for not being honest with me while she was still alive. Now I'll have to sort through all of these emotions on my own, and I don't even know where to start.

But I could share it. I could tell just one person. I shudder, knowing I am desperate to tell _somebody._ Even if it's Damon Salvatore.

"Do you promise-" I pause to clear my throat. It's still painfully raw from all the screaming. "Do you promise not to tell anyone?"

He nods.

I take a single breath, gathering every single ounce of strength left, and then it all comes spilling out. Damon doesn't say a word as I tell him about the letter and the frantic apology my mother had written to me before she left town forever. I tell him that I am a child born of rape, but I don't tell him my father's identity - the name John Gilbert is lodged in my throat and I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to force it out. My voice breaks half a dozen times; he only reaches for my hand, linking our fingers in the space between us. The strange view of our conjoined fingers gives me enough strength to carry on.

"Shit," he mutters in quiet shock when I have no more story to tell. His thumb brushes absentmindedly over mine and it's oddly comforting, though my lungs still feel like overblown balloons, stretched to their limits. "That's fucked up." I snort bitterly in agreement. "But Bon, you know you're not any less of a person for this? You don't get to choose your parents."

"I don't know how to feel." I admit softly. "I've always believed that my mother was young and dumb, and that she'd left me here because the pressure of raising a child was too much. But she -" I hiccup, forcing back another wave of tears. My eyes are already burning. "She loved me. She just didn't know _how_ to look me in the eye. I'm a living, breathing reminder of the worst night of her life."

"And that's _not your fault,"_ he argues, and I'm taken aback by how forcefully he squeezes my hand in conjunction with his statement. "You've always been the strongest person I know, Bonnie. Don't let this chip away at the foundation of who you are. It doesn't change a thing about you."

I can't find it in me to respond. Maybe he's right. But I don't feel the same - at my core I know it's too late to preserve the old way I'd viewed myself. Now everything just seems wrong. Tainted. Like even the tiniest molecules that make up my flesh were formed backwards. For so long I hadn't thought much about my conception beyond pre-conceived notions of it being an accidental side effect of a moment of passion.

Now I know for certain that I was conceived in moments of pure fear and pain. How sick is that?

"So what are you going to do?" he asks, when I've been silent for a couple of minutes. I remember the plan that had begun to form in my mind just seconds before he'd burst into the house. Maybe I'd been about to lose my mind, but even now it still seems like a good idea. I can't face anyone, but am I really brave enough to strike out on my own?

I've always been the level-headed friend. I've never stepped out of my comfort zone, but then again, I've never found a good enough reason to.

"I'm not sure," I tell him, though it's only partial truth.

He frowns before accepting my answer with a wordless shrug, and then reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. The well-worn thing is a staple of his, even in the summer. He effortlessly works a cigarette out of a pack and takes it between his lips, using his free hand to light up. Though I haven't smoked since my short experimental phase back in junior year, I take a puff when he offers it to me.

Inevitably, it leaves me choking on the bitter combination of chemicals in my throat. A ghost of smirk dances across his features, but I'm not annoyed. Just exhausted. I'm sure I look ridiculous; pieces of my hair are still slick to my face from salty tears and probably a little bit of snot. When he offers the cigarette to me once more, I take another puff and this time I only cough a little bit.

We take turns that way, smoking in silence. I know there are probably a million other things Damon could be doing right now, but it is a relief to sit here with another human being. And though I haven't told him the full truth, at least one more person knows. Amazingly, he doesn't look at me any different for it, and for the first time, I glimpse a side of Damon I'd never known existed.

Maybe tomorrow we'll go back to being 'frenemies,' and maybe the normalcy of it all will be exactly what I need. But for now? I'm just grateful that he never lets go of my hand.

* * *

This sort of just popped up out of nowhere. I'm in the middle of writing WILD YOUTH chapters two and three, so I probably shouldn't be posting this but I honestly could resist. Not sure if I'll continue, but here it is at least.


	2. Chapter 2

_I've gotta say, I didn't expect such a big interest in this. After a ton of follows, I'm excited to bring you the next chapter. Please review, I'd love to hear some of your thoughts._

* * *

I spend the next few days packing up the remainder of Gram's things into boxes to be stored in the attic. Though I'd told Damon I wasn't sure, my mind had been pretty much made up the second he left me to shower and sleep that night I'd found the letter. If I'm going to be gone for more than a few weeks, I figure it's better to leave the place neat and tidy. And though I'm not sure where exactly it is that I'll be going, I pack for a long trip anyways.

Grams left everything to me. The house, the car, and all of her money. The amount that I ended up with after funeral costs and expenses was shocking to me – I'd never known just how much money Grams had tucked away. So, I'm not too hard off when it comes to paying the bills and keeping the lights on. I can even afford to take time off from my job at the local bookstore and not have to worry about my funds running low.

It's a relief, sort of. At the same time though, I'd give every last dime to have Grams back. Nothing I have now can fill the void her passing has left, both physically and in my soul. She'd been everything to me... it was agonizing to watch her go in such a slow, terrible way.

When grief threatens to overtake me, I comfort myself with the notion that she's found peace now, far away from the pain.

I'm carrying full boxes up to the attic when I find the map. One of our old photo albums slips from the tall pile in my arms, spilling out onto the floor and I let out an exasperated curse. It's blazing hot outside and all the heat in the house has risen to the third floor. No matter how quickly the air conditioning is pumping, it doesn't seem to matter at all in the attic.

Sweat drips down my forehead and over the tip of my nose as I set the boxes down and scramble to fit the photos into their proper sleeves. It's then that I find the tattered, folded up piece of paper. The wrinkled edges speak of much use though it had obviously been kept in the same place for a long time. Grams had probably hidden it behind a photo in one of the plastic sleeves. As I unfurl the map of the U.S., my stomach sinks into my gut.

There are a dozen states circled in red ink, with tiny addresses written inside. The name Abigail is scribbled in the corner and suddenly it all becomes clear. She'd known my mother's whereabouts all along.

Grams hadn't shared much with me about my mother. She'd had a few old pictures of her as a child, but knowing Grams, she'd wanted me to enjoy my childhood without dwelling on ghosts. And I _did_ enjoy it. Ignorance was certainly bliss in my case, but that didn't eliminate my curiosity altogether. Grams had told me my mother's name, Abigail, and her birthday. But aside for the occasional wistful expression when she thought I wasn't looking, she never gave me even a hint that Abigail was still in contact with her.

Maybe Grams had known all along where my mother was living, but thought it best not to share information with me that couldn't be put to use. After all, there was no way she could've gone looking for her daughter while she was taking care of me. And what if her search had come up short? It would've been devastating for me to hold out false hope as a younger child.

But now... Now I'm not a child anymore. I'm eighteen and I have the chance to search Abigail out.

Despite the ugly truth of my conception, I _do_ want to know my mother. I want to know her now more than ever. It seems there could be a real purpose to my trip besides going ghost for a while. I can put all the miles on the civic to good use and most importantly, I can get the hell out of this town and away from John Gilbert.

I take the map with me, finish packing up Grams' things and spend the rest of the night building an itinerary for my trip. Now that I have a proper destination, my desire to get on the road has officially been peaked. Grams had circled twelve different states, the farthest being Nevada, with an address in Las Vegas.

Making lists and planning things out has always been a form of relaxation for me; I like order and efficiency. So I sip a cup of peppermint tea and plot my course with Google Maps, searching out cheap but non-sleazy hotels along the way. It's not a bad task. The prospect of getting out of Mystic Falls is alluring, but so is finally being able to do something important on my own. Still, I find my mind wandering.

It's been so long...The circumstances had been so horrendous. What if Abigail doesn't want to see me?

A knock on the front door startles me before I can doubt myself any more. Slipping from my seat, my intuition tells me who's waiting at the door before I can even open it. _Damon_. He's called to check up on me twice in the past few days. I'd answered the first time, missed the second and forgotten to call back. Despite his surprisingly thoughtful actions a few nights ago, seeing him here is still a little weird. I'm unprepared for how quickly he sidles past me and into the house, a lit cigarette dangling between his lips.

"How ya doing, Bon?" He asks casually, and I stammer out "Uhm, I'm fine" to the spot where he used to be. I shut the door quickly and hurry to follow him towards the kitchen; I don't want him to see what I'm up to and spill the beans to anyone else, but by the time I reach him it's already too late.

"What've we got here?" he glances at me from the brightly lit computer screen, curiosity inflaming the icy streaks of his irises. Ugh. I run my hand through my messy hair, wincing when my fingers snag on a few knots. The humidity had done it's job today, creating a kinky mess of curls around my face. Virginia summers are hot. It's always a silly task for me to even attempt to straighten my hair during the summer months.

Damon's turned away again, clicking through my computer tabs with zero restraint or respect for my privacy. He's almost as bad as Caroline when it comes to being nosy. I mentally prepare myself for the round of verbal banter about to take place. It's pointless to try to hide everything now. I know Damon, and I already know exactly what he's going to say when I finally tell him my plans.

"I don't recall inviting you in, Salvatore." I respond finally, dodging his question with a crossing of my arms. "Since when are we close enough for drop-ins without call ahead?"

"Since I smashed through your living room window, and we did the bonding thing on your bathroom floor, _Bennett._ " He waggles his dark eyebrows, before raising a hand in the air and waggling all five, long fingers too. "We even held hands, remember?"

I pin him with a glare that he subsequently ignores. Bonding thing? Oh hell no. "No smoking in the house, Damon."

"Those rules weren't in place last time I was here."

"Last time you were here I was in the midst of a personal crisis," I point out, and snatch the cigarette from between his lips with half a mind to ash it in the sink. It finds its way between mine instead. I don't have a habit - yet - and I should probably stop while I'm ahead, but I take a long draw from it just to spite him.

Damon watches the kidnapping of his cigarette with mild interest, before turning back to the screen. He's in his usual all black ensemble, with the leather jacket to boot. His choice of dark colors serves to emphasize the stark contrast between his pale skin and midnight hair. Even though he looks just as good in other colors, when it comes to outfit selection he never seems to stray from black, steel gray or navy blue.

"You're awfully good at changing the subject, Bon, but I've had lots of practice with Stefan and I ain't buying it. Why are you googling routes to- "His finger ghosts over the trackpad of my Macbook, brows knitting together in mild disbelief. "Vegas? Never pegged you for a gambler."

"If you _must_ know," I dance around him to flick my laptop shut with a click, and he steals his cigarette back just as quick, popping it between two pink lips. "I'm going on a little road trip for a few weeks. It's not a big deal."

His eyes alight on the word 'roadtrip' and I realize too late that my initial guess had been wrong. Of course, Damon wouldn't be the one to try to convince me not to go. He'd be the one to tag-along.

"It's a big enough deal that you were planning to leave without telling anyone," he surmises, puffing once and reaching for the map laid out next to him instead. I snatch it out of the way, slipping it into the back pocket of my jean shorts. "Because that's what you were going to do, right? Leave _without_ telling anyone."

"You know the instant Elena or Caroline hear that I'm leaving, they'll protest. They'll use their bodies as road blocks. I'll never be able to back out of the driveway."

He snorts in agreement. "You won't get out the door."

"Exactly."

"So, what is it then?" He leans forward against the counter, fixing an inquisitive blue gaze on me.

"What do you mean?"

Damon's eyes are his most defining feature - a very clear, cerulean blue that can deepen to navy or lighten to an almost white-gray depending on his moods. I've watched many females and even older women double take and melt with one look from those eyes. Now, I recognize the same cajoling expression he's had perfected for years, except this time it's pinned on me. And I don't like it.

"You wanna road trip across the United States on your own? Do you even know what you're doing?"

"I've already started planning my route and the hotels I'll stay in along the way. I'm actually almost done. Packing and all." I inform him smugly and can't help the small bit of pride that leaks into my voice.

I'm never one to be without a plan. I'm the definition of the "Mom" friend, and all of my friends know they can count on me to be the calm, prepared one. I give the most morally sound advice, like to think before I act, and have found that it works well for me. Damon should be perfectly aware of this, considering I've saved his ass more than once in all our years of frenemy-ship. He's usually the one with the crazy ideas and I'm usually the one to ensure all of us make it out alive _without_ criminal records.

Mystic Falls is a small town. Most often, the only way to have fun is to get into some measure of trouble. I'm not too righteous to keep from participating, at least some of the time. Our mutual friend group (consisting of my girlfriends, his younger brother Stefan, and Matt and Tyler) likes to enjoy a good party, and get a little rowdy here and there. The problem is that Damon's idea of fun is usually a little _too_ much fun. I'm the necessary component required to balance him out, which is also why we fight like cats and dogs.

My game plan only seems to amuse him. He chuckles, moving away to sit in one of the island stools. His legs are long, his body lithe like a soccer player - the sport he played his freshman year in college - and he promptly kicks his feet up onto the countertop. "You have no idea what you're doing."

"Yes, I do." I frown and he eyes me lazily from his seat, with only a stump of the cigarette left pinched between his thumb and index finger. Part of me wants to stomp my foot like a child and throw a temper tantrum. Somehow Damon always manages to make me feel the same exact way – like a kid. It's stupid because I _know_ I'm smart and responsible and in reality he's only a couple of years older. But what the hell does he know?

"I don't see anything wrong with it, especially considering I'm mapping everything out. How can you go wrong with thinking things through?"

"It's not about ' _thinking things through.'_ You're Bonnie fucking Bennett. You're about 5'2, cheerleader cute with your little bouncy ponytail and a giant fucking target for pervy assholes. You're smart, yeah. But you're not street smart and guys are dicks. I've known you _way_ too long and I can tell for a fact that half the time you don't even know when someone is hitting on you. Not to mention the fact that your ultimate destination is Vegas. You go missing there and nobody will ever be able to find you." He shakes his head. "In this day and age it's way too dangerous for a woman to travel alone. Points for effort, though."

"So you're saying it's a bad idea? I shouldn't go because I'm a helpless female?"

"Not entirely." He disagrees. "Minus the pervy assholes, it sounds like fun. You seem to have the other details straightened out. _I'm_ just wondering why. What's the purpose? People go to Vegas to get wasted, gamble away their life savings and elope. The difference between you and them is that they usually don't do it alone. All of the sudden you wanna _solo_ road-trip across the country just for shits and giggles? That doesn't sound like you. We _both_ know it's deeper than that, Bon, and to me it seems like you're running. The Bonnie Bennett I know doesn't run from sticky situations – she faces them head on."

I swallow hard, and suddenly the granite countertop is a lot more interesting than anything else in the room. He's read me, and read me well, though I hate to give him credit for it. He doesn't know about the map or the fact that I'm going to try and search out Abigail, but everything else is spot on.

"Maybe I'm tired of facing things head on. Maybe a little running is exactly what I need." I say, chewing hard on my bottom lip. Here I go again, feeling like a bug under a microscope. Though his presence irritates me to know end, I can't help thinking Damon of all people should get me on this. He's the king of spontaneity and throwing things together on the spot.

"You really think so?"

"I can't stay here, Damon!" Pushing tendrils of curly hair from my face, my fingertips brush against the slight perspiration that has begun to form on my forehead. It's cooled down a lot from the earlier temperatures but my blood is hot - I'm getting worked up. "Did you forget about everything that I told you? Tell me how you'd take that kind of news! Knowing that the man who raped your mother lives and breathes in the same town as you every day. He could cash you out at the grocery store or deliver your mail and you'd never even know it. That's beyond fucked up!"

"Bon," he says sympathetically, and his tone has shifted down a couple octaves, from slight condescension to soft understanding. I'm not entirely used to this side of him yet, and it feels weird for him to look at me with such gentleness. "You're going to have to face him sometime. Whether it's today or next year - this isn't going to go away."

"You're right," I nod my head slowly. "It's not. But I - I _need_ this, Damon. I need to get out of here. It'll do me some good to clear my head, breathe different air."

He's silent for a moment and I can hear him fidgeting with the car keys in his jacket pocket. Then he uncrosses his legs, sets them on the floor and folds his hands in his lap. "Alright. So let me go with you."

And there it is. I knew he'd try to tag along. Rolling my eyes, I move to start gathering up my things from the counter, but he traps my wrist with one firm hand. "Before you completely nix the idea, give it a little more thought. You need someone to make sure you don't get kidnapped, and quite frankly, I could care less about spending another minute here in Mystic Falls. Besides, you'll be gone and I'll have nobody to bicker with. What kind of a summer is that?"

"You just got home from school," I point out. "What about spending time with Stefan and Giuseppe? Hitting on Vicki Donovan at the Mystic Grille like you always do?"

"Hanging out with my Dad and my brother _together_ is like watching paint dry. And Vicki Donovan is old news. Been there, done that. Have the pictures to prove it."

"That's disgusting."

"Regardless, my schedule is free." He smirks. "Come on, Bonnie. Your reasons for doing this are valid. We may grate each other's nerves here and there, but you need me. You need someone to look out for you, and like you just said, you _need_ to get out of Mystic Falls one way or another. I won't even charge you for bodyguard services."

He's got a point. I was so busy putting together a travel plan that I hadn't even thought about the dangers of traveling on my own as a petite, less-than-threatening, female. As much as I'd like to call bullshit and scream "girl power!" at the top of my lungs, I have zero self-defense training, whereas Damon is a foot taller and lot more intimidating. I don't know if he can fight, and I doubt it'll come to that but he's a lot better than nothing at all.

God. He's wearing me down. He's wearing me down and I'm really about to willfully spend extended periods of time with Damon Salvatore in a confined space. I pinch the bridge of my nose, floundering for any sort of excuse to deter the inevitable.

"They'll be suspicious when we're both gone."

"Let them wonder. We'll be back anyways, it's not like we're moving to Europe."

"You'll have to chip in on gas and pay for your own meals and hotel rooms. No strippers in Vegas and no one night stands for the entirety of the trip whatsoever."

He frowns, faint lines bunching up at the corners of his pursed lips. He looks so much like himself pouting as a child when we were kids and it's even more ironic because he still acts just like one.

"Ugh, you're the worst. But since we're doing the whole "cathartic journey" shtick I guess I can keep it in my pants."

"Good." I fiddle with the extra hair tie on my wrist, thinking of the map in my back pocket. "If we're really going to go through with it then there's something you should know."

He waits expectantly for me to continue but before I can tell him about the map, my doubts from earlier come surging back full force.

What if Abigail doesn't want to see me? What if I can't find her? Yes, he'd been super comforting and helpful before, but I don't know if my pride can allow me to let Damon watch me hit the pavement face first - he isn't even aware of my father's real identity.

Maybe I should hold off in telling him the other side to my plans. How hard can it be to pass off the first few stops on the list as quick "family" visits? I can leave him at the hotel for a couple of hours and check things out for myself.

Instead of giving him the full rundown, I tell him "This trip is my idea, so I'm running the show. I'm the boss. I pick the places, you follow. No arguments and no pit-stops outside of the plan. Got it?"

He shrugs nonchalantly, "Whatever you say. I kinda like it when you're bossy. It's actually incredibly hot."

I blanch momentarily at that, though I should be used to his offhand compliments. Half the time I can't tell if he's being serious or dreadfully sarcastic. Apparently, my blank expression is exactly what he's looking for - he smirks, pleased with himself and I reach over to flick him on the shell of his ear.

"Ouch! Rude."

"Shut up and be serious! I get the map at all times and we're absolutely _not_ taking the Camaro."

The excitement in his eyes falls flat at the tail end of my statement. "You're kidding. The Camaro is the best choice for a sweet little drive across the country. It's _ideal,_ actually. Imagine all the instagram opportunities! You know I hate driving automatics."

"Who said you'd be driving?"

"Please. Give it a day on the road and you'll be begging me to switch with you." He refutes snappily. "No dice. I'm the better driver anyways. We take my car."

I open my mouth to argue but the familiar sound of vibrating plastic fills the air. My phone is going off. It's an incoming call from Elena - I can see her contact name with the cute pink emoji hearts from where I'm standing.

My mouth inadvertently goes dry. We haven't spoken in almost four days, since I found Abigail's letter. Even though nothing has changed between us, the pounding of my heart in my ears makes it feel a lot like the opposite.

"You gonna answer that, or?" Damon's looking at me like I've gone crazy, his head tilted to the side and I realize that I've just been standing still watching the phone go off in silence. I swallow around the lump in my throat and shake my head. The last thing I want is to talk to Elena right now, even though she would be my go-to in any other circumstance. I still can't fathom that she's my half-sister - it almost makes sense how close we've always been. Still, until I get things sorted out in my head, I just don't know how to act.

Damon might not know all the details, but he refrains from questioning my decision as the phone call finally goes to voicemail. I'm grateful. My chest begins to ache and I blow out a heavy sigh. How am I ever going to tell Elena the truth?

"So… about the car situation-" he starts again, and I hold up a hand before he can pick up where we left off. Suddenly what we drive doesn't seem to matter as much as just getting the hell out of here. Elena and Caroline will be beating down my door sooner or later. I'd like to be long gone by the time that happens.

"It's fine. We can take the Camaro, I don't care. Just get your stuff packed and ready. We leave in 48 hours."

"Got it, Bee." He says with a nod, as in _Bonnie Bee,_ the childhood nickname he'd given me after an incident that had proven me deadly allergic to bee stings. Then he's up and on the move once again. I trail behind him as he saunters down the front hall to the front door, twirling his keys around the tip of his index finger. The window where'd he'd broken in a couple of nights ago is boarded up and he gestures to it on the way out the door.

"You should probably get that fixed before we head out."

"Already done. It'll be replaced tomorrow morning."

"Good," he says, "I'll see you in 48 hours, Bee." And then he's gone, slipping into the driver's seat of his baby blue '69 Camaro and peeling off down the street. I remain in the doorway even after he's faded off into the distance. The neighborhood is quiet as dusk begins to settle and a few kids still linger outdoors; I watch a little girl with pigtails draw chalk figures out on a blacktop driveway and remember doing the same thing.

Damon had been right before. I can pretend that I've got everything under control, but the truth is that have absolutely no idea what I'm doing or what I'm getting myself into. Going after Abigail could be a huge mistake or the best decision of my life. She could reject me or I might not even find her at all.

But it's too late to back out now. The plans are set in motion, Damon is coming with me and I'll be free from Mystic Falls in two days.

If I want answers, the time is now to get them.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_

 _Also, I'm debating on following a 2-1 pattern for this story. Two chapters in Bonnie's POV followed be one in Damon's._

 _Once again, please review and let me if you'd like to hear what's going on in Damon's head._

 _-M_


	3. Chapter 3

_I am floored by the amount of positive attention this story has received. Thank you for waiting. Here's the next chapter in Damon's point of view, as many people have requested._

* * *

 **Damon's POV:**

Twelve hours and counting until operation Get The Fuck Outta Mystic Falls with Bonnie and I can't sit still.

With a half-empty suitcase and all of my unpacked boxes I'd brought home from college, my bedroom looks like a tsunami hit and then doubled back for round two. For the next month it's probably going to stay that way. I'm way too amped up to focus on just one thing. Music pumps from my bluetooth speaker tower as I dig through boxes for toiletries, tossing things haphazardly into the suitcase and a smaller Nike duffle.

Shirts, _check._ Socks, _check._ Boxers, _check_. Mentally I'm ticking items off as I go. Despite the current disarray, there's still a slight method to my madness, closeted neat freak that I am. Usually I'd have my room sorted out by now but current events have kept me otherwise occupied and out of the house. I whistle along to the current song, my mind somewhere else entirely.

I'm excited for this trip, and if I'm being honest with myself, it's not just because I'll be getting out of Mystic Falls. Sure, my hometown can get a little boring. You've gotta make your own fun around here, but that's something I'm used to.

Nah, it's more about _who_ I'm getting out with.

I like Bonnie. I've always liked Bonnie. But it's not until a few years back - the summer of her sixteenth birthday - that I started to like- _like_ Bonnie. It's complicated and hopeless - given our history, there's a fat chance the feelings will ever be reciprocated - but I can't seem to stop, no matter how many semesters I spend away, or how many pairs of legs I find myself between.

Of course, I'm ninety-eight percent sure she can't stand me - at least the majority of the time - though it's not entirely my fault. The reason we bump heads stems partially from our personalities, which happen to be polar opposites and partially because I make a serious effort to piss her off. Sure, lighting a fire under my own ass might seem a little counterproductive, but that crazy gleam in her eyes right before she's about to tell me about myself? Priceless. It nearly tops my list of favorite things, second only to the begrudging smile she gives me when I've actually managed to make her laugh.

Needless to say, even though I'm looking forward to being stuck together for awhile, the reason for it sucks and sucks _hard_. I know that she's hurting. Finding out about what happened to her mother, on top of the grief of Gram's passing, is another horrible piece of information Bonnie doesn't need to deal with right now. The stress is wearing on her, physically and emotionally. I can see it in her eyes.

Usually, I look at Bonnie and I see fire. She's never lacking in attitude, ferocity, or brilliance. I think of her and see the bright-eyed, curly-haired girl in a yellow bikini, about to tackle me into the Lockwood's in-ground pool just to prove some measly little point. _That's_ who she is. Not this mournful, exhausted ghost of a girl existing in her place. It's probably all kinds of selfish, but when I'd heard Gram's had died, I'd been sort of relieved. Even miles away, I could see Bonnie sitting beside the hospice bed, punishing herself for something she couldn't control.

Somehow, even though _none_ of this is her fault, she finds a way to carry the burden anyways. She always has, in everything. I know it's killing her to even admit to needing an out from it for awhile.

Not even Bonnie Bennett can dodge reality for very long. Maybe in a different town or a big city, but not here, not in Mystic Falls. She'd made an extremely valid point about her father. Her mother's rapist could be anybody, and given the small population of our town, it's likely they've already interacted in _some_ way. Though Bonnie has only ever been the type to face her problems head on - no bullshit, whatsoever - I don't blame her for wanting to skip town like her mother did all those years ago.

Mystic Falls can suffocate you with the right demons hovering over your head. It's for that reason alone that I'd gone to college in a completely different state, not Whitmore, like all the other MFHS grads.

My iPhone buzzes twice in my back pocket, the notification that I've received a text message and as I slip it out, Bonnie's ID lights up the screen. Her contact name in my phone is simple: two capital B's and a bumblebee emoji.

 _ **Packed and ready,**_ it reads. _**Be here by 8 am, before the cavalry arrives to shut us down.**_

I smirk at her reference to Caroline and Elena. I'm sure she's continued to avoid any contact with either of the two, considering her reluctance to answer Elena's phone calls the other night.

Yeah, I'd picked up on it. She'd tried to play it off, and in the moment I knew better than to press her. Still, the sliver of panic that had crossed her face when she'd read the caller ID had been fleeting - but not fast enough. I've grown pretty good at interpreting her facial expressions, whether she's aware of it or not.

Bonnie's tough and smart, but she's also just the tiniest bit guarded, especially when it comes to her pride. She _needs_ her friends to lean on, even I can be sure of that. But I don't think she's ready to explain something to them that she hasn't even come to terms with herself. I can't fault her for it. I know what it's like to run hard and fast away from the truth. I know how lonely it can be, how isolating. Which is exactly why I'm glad Bonnie's gonna have me while she takes her turn.

I type out a reply, offering to pick up some coffee before we head out on the road. Just thinking about it already has me envisioning her well-toned cheerleader legs stretched out on my dashboard, the wind whipping through her hair as we tear down the highway. Those _perfect_ fucking legs.

Ugh.

Once again, I think it's a huge miracle or some kind of blessing from God that I'd been the one on the phone last week. Her bloodcurdling scream might've stopped my heart for a few seconds, but if there's anyone who's gonna look out for her on a cathartic roadtrip to Vegas, it's me. Had it been any other way, I'd probably be the last person she'd ever open up to about something so personal. I guess things just have a way of working out.

This trip is one hundred percent for her, and I'm determined to _not_ let it become about the feelings I've successfully squashed for awhile now. Still… it would be a lie if I said I wasn't looking forward to this opportunity to hopefully expand our friendship beyond the bounds of routine bickering.

"Texting Katherine?"

My head snaps up at the sound of my baby brother's voice. He's leaning against the doorframe, a know-it-all grin plastered across his tan face, and instantly the smile drops from mine. I realize I've just been standing there, smiling idiotically at a stupid text message for a good portion of a minute. Just hearing my psychotic ex-girlfriend's name makes my stomach roll in disgust and I flip him the bird.

"Ha-ha. I'd rather saw off my left arm and eat it for breakfast."

"So you're texting Bonnie then," he says casually and this time the glare I send his way is murderous.

The only reason Stefan knows that I've got the hots for Bonnie is because two summers ago, when my feelings had first surfaced, we'd gotten incredibly drunk and high together. Over three large pizzas and endless rounds of 2k14, we'd been more emotionally vulnerable with each other then ever before. We'd talked about a lot of things that night - a shit ton of craziness had just gone down in our family and we'd only had each other - but the only time he'll ever reference those hours of "brotherly bonding" is to bring up Bonnie.

"Screw you, dick." I reply and roll my eyes. He saunters the rest of the way into my room with a satisfied expression, throwing his body across my shittily made bed. I've probably slept in it once the past week. Turning back to the task at hand, I start searching for another clean pair of jeans while he takes out his own phone.

"Leaving so soon?" He asks, but his forest green eyes never leave the brightly glowing screen and his fingers fly across the touch keyboard with ease. Though I haven't been home very much since I got back, the few times I've seen Stef have been with that phone in his hand. I've got two guesses as to who could be on the receiving end of his messages.

Caroline or Elena. Maybe even _both._ And that's some drama I ain't touching with a ten foot pole.

"Gotta go help out a friend. I'll be back soon." I respond easily, sparing him details he doesn't need to be sharing with either of the two females filling up his inbox.

"Dad know?"

"Dad's probably going to be gone half the time I'm away," I snort derisively, _bitterly_. "So nope. He wouldn't care anyways."

"He might. He wants to take us to the Hamptons. Told me last night when he called." This is new information our father has yet to share with me. Then again, we've talked maybe twice by phone since I got home. Stefan shudders outwardly and scrolls down with a fingertip. "Probably to meet _her._ If you're not back by then I swear to god I'm gonna fucking kill you. I'm not doing that shit alone."

A part of me wants to hit something. Instead I settle for aggressively kicking through all of my shit to find my favorite belt. I don't want to meet _her._ I'd rather break both of my legs twice than meet _her._ But I've known this time would come and I hate that it's here. Meeting my Dad's girlfriend is the fucking cherry on top of all the unresolved tension between us. To think that it's been two years and our relationship remains in a shambles… it makes my throat ache.

"You won't be alone," I tell him seriously, but it's more of a promise. Stefan and I watch out for each other. We've always been close and even though he won't admit it out loud, I know he'll need to lean on me for the emotional support. He'd taken our mother's death the hardest - we'd spiralled into a massive black-hole of depression together, but I was the one to resurface first.

He looks up from his phone to offer me a nod, as close to a grateful "thank you" that I'm gonna get, before his face lights up. "Oh, by the way. When were you planning on telling Dad you're switching into a journalism major?"

Shit.

I swallow hard, the blood in my veins running cold. Stefan won't rat me out about this, no way. But I have no idea how he found out, and I'm still battling with the decision to even _tell_ my dad the truth or let him find out when I graduate and the diploma says "Journalism" instead of "Pre-Law."

"How the hell do you know that?"

He reaches into his back pocket, retrieving a cream-colored envelope folded into thirds. He unfolds it before holding it out for me to grab. "This came today from the Head of the Journalism Department - it wasn't hard to figure out. I snagged it from the mail pile before it got dumped in Dad's office."

I snatch the envelope out of his hand quickly, stuffing it into the bottom of my Nike duffle where no one will ever find it. No need to read it now - I already know what is says. I'd known I was accepted into the department before I'd even packed my stuff to come home for summer break.

"Dad's gonna kick my ass," I sigh, zipping up the bag. "He's gonna kick my ass and then reassemble the pieces so he can kick it again."

"Yeah, you're pretty much fucked." Stefan agrees lightly, running a hand through his unusually disheveled hair. I can tell he genuinely feels bad for me though; he's always been terrible at disguising his emotions with humor. Plus I'm way better at reading him then everyone else.

I also know that more than anything else, he feels guilty. I'd chosen pre-law as my major under pressure - not because it was something that I wanted to do. That one awful year of hell had thrown a lot our way. To keep the burden of attention off of Stefan's shoulders I hadn't put up a fight when Dad had pushed me to go pre-law. In reality, the idea of being a big name lawyer like my father actually kind of makes me sick to my stomach. There's no way I could ever take up the mantle of running his firm. Stefan isn't cut out for the job either if we're being honest, but since I'm the first born… well it's obvious how that goes.

"I just can't do it." I admit. "I gave it a try, but it just - god, it fucking sucks. And then I see myself sitting at a huge desk in twenty years going grey, looking positively miserable and _now_ I get why Dad's so protective of the alcohol in his office."

Stefan snorts. His phone pings and I watch _the look_ spread across his face as he reads the message. _The look_ is reserved for whichever girl it is that he actually likes, which I'm still trying to figure out. I haven't been home long enough to observe, but my bet's on Caroline - Stef and I are opposites when it comes to women. I love brunettes and he's always had a special place in his heart for hot blondes. Growing up he and Care had always been close, but then puberty had hit and done her all sorts of good.

Stefan taps out a response to his text, a mischievous glint in his eye, and I'm ninety eight percent sure he's about to go get laid.

"Listen, dude. You and I both know law was never what you wanted. It's _your_ life. You made a decision to make things easier on everyone but the time for that is long gone. I'm going to school for what I want. So what you popped out of the womb first? It's not your responsibility to carry on the firm."

I weigh his words and the truth in them, knowing that he's right. It isn't my responsibility and yet… I know it'll disappoint our father. With the shattered state of our relationship, I hate to destroy it any further.

"Besides," Stefan continues with a grimace, his typically broody eyebrows coming together in the middle. "I don't think Bonnie would appreciate raising the kids while you work eighty hour weeks."

I'm halfway to a reply before my brain fully grasps what he has just left his mouth. By that time my brother has rolled off the bed to his feet, a wicked smirk on his face. He darts out of the room just as a pillow smashes into the wall where his head used to be.

"Fuck you!"

"You too, brother!" He yells back, laughter echoing down the hallway.

In the distance the front door slams, and I hear his god-awful attempt at whistling float through an open window as he slips into his own cherry red Porsche. I press the heels of my palms into my eyeballs, but a stubborn grin fights it's way to my mouth as the scenario he'd suggested plays out in my mind like a movie.

Bonnie. Bonnie raising _our_ kids. Bonnie getting extremely pissed off at me while raising _our_ kids. Me coming home and making her _forget_ why she's pissed off.

Okay, so maybe the last part is of my own creation, but he's still fucking funny, the little shit. God, I hate him.

My phone buzzes again and I shake away the vision, opening Bonnie's message.

 _ **Actually, an iced coffee would be a great. Thanks for offering. I'm gonna hit the hay early. I**_ _ **'ll see you in the morning!**_

Leave it to Bonnie to be punctual about bedtime.

Instead of replying to her, lest I fall prey to temptation and include an emoji I can't take back, I pocket my phone and turn to finish packing. Maybe Bonnie's not the only one eager to get away for awhile. My father's business trip is bound to end sooner or later. He'll return to Mystic Falls and I'm nowhere near ready to start the conversation we so badly need to have. I've spent my fair share of time running... I ran when I couldn't deal with the loss of my mother, ran when I chose a college out of state... another month can't hurt me now.

I'm not like Bonnie. I don't have a history of facing my problems head on, so I don't feel so bad about skipping town with her. This is what I'm good at - putting my problems on a shelf to be dealt with later, just to soak up any and every adrenaline rush so I can forget they exist altogether. Bonnie might need this, but so do I. Helping her is the best distraction I can think of.

We _both_ need to get the fuck out of Mystic Falls, I know that for certain.

The morning can't come soon enough.

* * *

It's eight o'three by the time I roll into Bonnie's driveway. I'm three minutes off schedule but it looks like the shit-storm we'd hoped to avoid has already begun to roll in.

Bonnie's standing on her front porch, white-knuckling the handle of a rolling suitcase with the smaller, matching companion at her feet. From the looks of it she seems to be engaged in a full-blown stare down with Elena, who I haven't seen since spring break. Elena's dressed in her work uniform, standing with her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Just as Bonnie predicted, she must've gotten tired of being ignored. Judging on the time, she'd probably stopped by on the way to her morning shift at the local bakery.

Elena doesn't look happy. In fact, she looks downright livid. Her pin-straight brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and I can only imagine the suspicious glint in her almond-shaped eyes as she glares down Bonnie and her suitcases.

My stomach drops straight into my ass as I shift into park and Elena slowly spins on her heel. She's completely bewildered by my sudden appearance, nailing me with an equally venomous stare.

Fuck.

Should I even get out of the car? I have half a mind to chicken out and sit here while the two girls duke it out. I'm not made for this girly drama bullshit. Stefan and I usually beat the crap out of each other until we run out of steam, and then work it out over glasses of Dad's favorite bourbon and some ice packs. This? This is way too intense for me.

One quick glance out the window though, and I find myself unbuckling my seatbelt. The two girls have already exchanged words - or at least some yelling. I can tell by the look on Bonnie's face, the rapid rise-and-fall of her chest - if I don't step in and hustle her into the car, she's gonna lose it.

"Damon?" Elena exclaims disbelievingly, as I step around my side of the car. I choose to avoid eye contact, and keep my focus on Bonnie, who's pressed her lips so tightly together it's like they don't exist. She glances at me briefly, the panic hidden in her green eyes transforming into silent relief.

"Thank you," she mouths when I take the handle from her hand, and I give her a wordless nod of encouragement. In fact, it's _the_ nod. The "Y _ou can do this, so get your ass in gear. I believe in you,_ " one that a coach gives a struggling athlete in every single sports movie ever made. Sure enough, her expression hardens and that's all it takes for her to grow a backbone again.

Elena gestures wildly at me as I breeze by her once more, headed for the trunk of the Camaro. "What the hell, Bonnie! What's going on?! Why is Damon taking your things? Where are you going?!"

"I'm sorry I've been ignoring you lately, Elena," she responds, and with each word her voice strengthens. "I told I've just been dealing with a lot of things, and I don't really know how to open up to you about them, yet."

"But you can open up to Damon?! You _hate him."_ Ouch. I stiffen a little at the disgust in Elena's voice. I know she's worked up, but it still stings knowing they've probably discussed me in private and Bonnie's likely been less than nice. The girl really has no idea, so I'll give her a pass.

"I'm going to visit some family and Damon's coming with me." she says steadily. "And I _never_ said that. We may have our differences but I asked him to come and he said yes."

"I just don't understand," she sputters, "You know that I love you and you can tell me anything, Bonnie. Why not ask _me_ to be there for you? Have I done something wrong?"

"No I just-" Bonnie's voice wavers, threatening to break and she looks away. From the bobbing of her throat, it's obvious that she's fighting back tears again. Elena takes a step back as the realization that she's being rejected once more hits home. "I'm sorry Elena, but I'll explain everything when I get back okay? I just need to leave right now. I need you to understand."

"Well I _don't_ ," the other girl bites back. Her cheeks are flushed a dangerous red - for a moment I see my ex-girlfriend standing in her place, all fierce, fury and long dark hair. Their physical similarities are almost uncanny; I don't know how I never picked up on it before, "I don't get it, Bonnie. But do whatever the hell you have to do, I don't care anymore!"

The entire frame of the car shakes as Elena climbs in and slams the door. The smell of burnt rubber accompanied by the harsh squeal of spinning tires fills the air as she peels out of the driveway and down the street. Ugh. All the years I've known her and it still baffles me. The girl really knows how to make an exit.

When she is gone the silence that fills the yard is deafening. I look to the devastated young woman wringing her hands on the porch.

I definitely should've gotten here earlier. Fuck the iced coffee melting in the front seat.

"Bonnie?" Her watery gaze meets mine and suddenly she's the little girl I grew up with, minus the pigtails and sparkly pink jelly sandals. Her eyes close for a moment as she fights to regulate her breathing, smearing away tears on the underside of her thin wrist.

I face a struggle of a different kind. It takes every ounce of self-control to keep me rooted to the spot where I'm standing - too far away to touch her, to comfort her, like I really want to. I know we're not there yet. We may be in this together but Bonnie doesn't trust me completely and I'm not stupid enough to expect that out of her right now. So instead I look away, slipping back into the driver's seat to let her take a beat until she's ready to be strong again.

A few minutes later I look up from Candy Crush to the sound of the passenger door opening. Bonnie plops down next to me, slamming the door behind her. My poor baby - the _Camaro_ of course - rattles with the force of it. At first I think she's going to burst into another round of tears when she notices the iced coffee with her name on it in the cupholder. Her forehead wrinkles and a breath whooshes out of her all at once. But when she looks over at me all traces of tears are gone, replaced by grim determination.

"Let's do this," she says, and I almost believe the forced grin that stretches across her pretty little face. "Let's get the hell out of here."

I give her my most confident smirk, revving the engine. "As the lady commands."

And then we go.

* * *

 _I'm not so sure how I feel about this chapter to be honest. I don't think it's my absolute best, but I really wanted to get it out there. I love writing Damon though. He's my favorite character after all, and I love the dynamic he shares with Stefan in this story. They're all teenagers/young adults, but since this is an AU, their personalities are bound to be a bit different. Less jaded than the characters on the show, but they've still experienced a lot that we haven't seen so far. Take that into consideration. Obviously there's a lot of backstory that's yet to be explored, so we'll see that unfold as the story continues. Next chapter is Bonnie's point of view._

 _Please leave a review and let me know any of your thoughts! Also, I'm never betaed. I reread until it feels like my eyeballs are gonna fall out and then screw it. So if you found any errors in grammar or whatever, please let me know. Thanks for reading!_

 _-M_


End file.
